


On the Mountain

by Anonymous



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Anal Sex, Birth, M/M, Mpreg
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-08
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 9,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25785769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Geralt is picking Ciri up from Emhyr after she has turned eighteen.Contains Mpreg. Graphic birth, graphic sex.AU - Modern (-ish) setting.
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 35
Kudos: 243
Collections: Anonymous





	1. A quick drive

Geralt hadn’t expected the snow when he started the upwards drive into the mountains. His hands tapped on the steering-wheel and the wipers moved aggressively from side to side, not fast enough for the hammering snow.

The wheels skidded around, even the four-wheel drive of the Toyota lacked momentum on the slippery mountain road; the witcher stopped the car; whirlwinds of snow encapsulated it.

He tipped the collar of the leatherjacket up, groaning as snow whipped his face. The jacket was worn and thin. Forcing his eyes open, Geralt got out and squatted in the 10 inch snow that covered the road and struggled with his balance, while pulling the snow chains around the tires. Unable to zip the tight jacket, he cursed himself for not buying another one; he shuttered while the wind blew through the green knitted sweater underneath the jacket

Struggling to gain momentum, Geralt pushed against the truck. His sturdy leather boots made deep marks in the snow as he trotted into the Toyota. Pulling off the padded leather gloves, listening, wondering if a ghoul screeched near the car, but deciding that it was the wind. The deafening howl of foul weather.

His cellphone was still dead, worried he reached over and patted the silversword on the passenger seat. He glanced at the map next to the sword; the cabin was still 10 miles up ahead; an easy ride in dry weather. The witcher worried the trip down the mountain tonight would prove impossible.

The baby kicked him in the ribs, while simultaneously pushing her head into his bladder. He needed to piss, but he preferred avoiding it in the blizzard — although it was unlikely he could borrow a bathroom at destination.

Only two days had passed since Ciri’s eighteenth birthday, and it was unclear if he could leave with her. But wanted Ciri to leave, he’d try.

The darkness came gradually; the sunset hid in the dense snow. In the storm, the whooshing of the pines and the creaking of wood strained to its limit were the only audible sounds.

Ciri had called him on her birthday and asked to be picked up. From across the country, Geralt had driven nonstop. Emhyr had forbidden them contact, and they had talked only twice in eight months. Ciri’s call had been the third time.

“Are you in a state to drive?” She had asked.

“It is another three weeks, I am coming,” Geralt had huffed, affronted. He regretted it now; pain rippled through his back, and the baby butted her head relentlessly into his bladder.

It was another hour before the witcher pulled into the courtyard of Emhyr var Emreis’s mountain cabin. The wind howled, blowing the snow into large drifts. The enormous dark mansion rose ahead as a looming shadow. Pulling the jacket closer when he got out; deciding on leaving the swords.

Hopefully, confronting Emhyr was avoidable.

* * *

Cirilla — wearing pajamas bottoms and a t-shirt — sat in a corner of the huge open kitchen-living room, the furthest from Emhyr as possible. He had hoped her hostility would decrease after a few weeks of vacation.

She huffed a strand of flaxen hair away from her eyes, deep focused on cleaning a knife. He had lost the battle of weaponry indoors.

After her eighteenth birthday, his legal power over her had evaporated. He had hoped that by getting her home, she would appreciate him as her father. He was on his second glass of scotch in the other end of the huge spacious room, staring into the open fireplace separating them.

Lifting her head. “Someone is at the door,” Cirilla said. The wind outside howled again, and before he could convince her it was the storm, she stood up, bare feet, placing the knife in its sheath on her hip.

“Cirilla?” Emhyr rose, annoyed. Cirilla padded out into the entrée and down the stairs to the receiving area.

Not being able to catch up with her before she was downstairs, holding the front-door. Outside, framed in the whiteness, the ominous shadow of Geralt of Rivia; Icicles and snow stuck in his white flowing hair.

Pulling him inside, Ciri jumped him, hugging him. Not caring that Emhyr had caught up and hovered behind her.

Ciri brushed snow off Geralt’s jacket and he pushed his fingers through her hair, holding her tight. Whirlwinds of snow blew in the open door. Ciri closed it behind the witcher. Emhyr’s stomach clenched as he realized what had happened.

“Dad, you came,” she whispered. Her pajamas, pants, and t-shirt getting wet. Stroking her flaxen hair, Geralt suddenly seemed to realize that Emhyr was observing the display.

Emhyr folded his arms, tensed his position, and glared at them.

“Geralt you are not welcome.”

The witcher’s lips curled up in disgust. 

“Don’t worry, I am leaving as soon as I have talked to Ciri.” Emhyr shifted his weight to the other foot, and pursed his lips.

“Can we leave tonight?” Ciri asked. “I just need to pack my things.” Geralt pushed a loose strand of hair from her face.

“It is not safe making it the whole way down the mountain,” Geralt said, his voice raw from the cold. Snow had stuck to his short white beard, and dark patches edged his pale cheeks. 

“If the weather clear up, we can leave at first light,” he added, looking at Ciri, taking her in, stroking her hair, completely disregarding Emhyr in the background. He would repeat that the witcher was not welcome in his home, but even he found it unreasonable that they should drive tonight in the blizzard.

Frowning, he turned. He wanted to threaten Cirilla that if she left here with Geralt, he would never welcome her back, that she would be cut off from any inheritance. But he knew that she would gladly agree, and he would never see her again; he wasn’t prepared to do that. Instead, he huffed that Cirilla could show Geralt the butler’s quarters, at present unoccupied.

Emhyr flipped around and walked to his own en-suite-master-bedroom. Fuming, furious. Certain Cirilla had forgotten Geralt in the eight months past. Ciri had called Geralt ‘ _dad_ ’; Emhyr she had only ever called ‘ _Emhyr_ ,’ if she called him anything at all. 

Other ambiguous emotions on seeing the witcher had emerged. Emhyr hadn’t seen Geralt since eight months ago, when the witcher had asked for an option to see Cirilla on the weekends, if he moved to Vizima. Emhyr had flatly refused him, after which they had fucked each other senseless in Emhyr’s study. It had been a regular occurrence until that point, and then, as he had wiped Geralt's existence from theirs, that had stopped.

He was ready to wipe that existence out again.


	2. Trolls

The smell of fresh coffee, bacon, and Geralt’s strange porridge with pieces of bacon greeted Emhyr as he entered the kitchen. The memories of the scent intruded on his pleasant mood and senses. It was half-past six, earlier than the sun. Outside the wind faded to a low rumble, and the snow was a thick white curtain on the trees and bushes.

Cirilla sat on one of the bar stools, observing Geralt, now in a black t-shirt, his hair collected in a ponytail. Cirilla had been smiling. When she observed Emhyr in the entrance to the large open living room and kitchen space, her lips curled into a frown.

Geralt, however, didn’t flinch, giving Emhyr an acknowledging nod.

“You want coffee?” He asked, unflappable. Emhyr paused, studied the witcher’s figure. He mostly looked the same, except from a sizable increase in girth. Usually tight and flat bellied, Geralt had been sporting a paunch. Speculating whether the witcher was pregnant.

Emhyr pushed the thought away and sat down at the bar and politely accepted the smoldering coffee Geralt whisked up for him.

* * *

Geralt sat down. Dull pain ached in his back, and he was eager to return from the mountain. The prospect, however, of closed roads, and the howling blizzard, worried the witcher. Under normal circumstances, wintery conditions didn’t scare him, and Ciri had faced worse. 

His stamina and speed were crippled by the added weight from the baby. If the car got stuck, he doubted he could get them home safely. His cell phone had zero bars.

He needed to convince Emhyr to extend his hospitality to at least the following day, when the roads were cleaned.

“I saw two rock trolls coming up here,” the witcher said conversationally, hoping Emhyr wanted him to dispose of the trolls. Ciri shot him a sharp glare. Undoubtedly suspecting his plan.

“When the storm dies down, I could take care of them?” Emhyr eyed him suspiciously, also realizing the ulterior motive.

Ciri clenched her teeth.

“I am sure Emhyr won't mind us staying until it's safe to leave,” she said, sipping her coffee, staring her father down with an icy glare.

Emhyr opened his mouth like he was about to contradict her, before turning to Geralt.

“Fine, you can pay for lodging by removing the trolls,” Emhyr huffed. Ciri turned the stare towards Geralt, who proceeded to look down into his porridge.

She huffed exasperated before collecting her dishes and her mug, putting them in the sink before marching out. Emhyr drank a sip more of his coffee. It appeared this wasn’t the first time Ciri stormed out angrily.

Geralt breathed in sharply, and studied Emhyr, before he again focused on his porridge. They ate in silence while the baby rumbled around inside him.

Unable to take potions, especially swallow and black blood, the witcher was rarely taking on contracts while pregnant.

Trolls, however, shouldn’t pose a problem.

It had taken a toll on his finances. The baby grew inside him and moved around, and would soon need food and diapers. Hopefully, Ciri didn’t have high expectations of their living conditions after having lived with Emhyr.

Things had often been meagre for them, before Emhyr had successfully claimed Ciri back - eight months before her coming of age.

* * *

Ciri hadn’t emerged from her room when Geralt retrieved his swords from the Toyota. The wind had calmed, but his clothes were damp from the previous day. Pulling the leather jacket across his stomach.

The remains of his breath left a cloud of mist in his wake. It was quiet in the storm's absence.

Strapping the two swords to his back, apprehensive. His leather boots sank into the fresh snow, and the chilly wind lifted his hair, as he ventured out in the courtyard, past the blue Toyota, before he caught a whiff of the troll. Large footprints were edged in the snow and disappeared into the trees.

Based on the imprints, it was a single troll. Slowly drawing his sword from the scabbard, listening for faint sounds in the now lessened wind; he could hear a humming, a deep rocky humming. The voice carried, and the witcher sidled into the forest. Thick snow-blown pines blocked his view as the tracks smeared, before he finally got to a clearing. Geralt didn’t feel the ice creep into his bones and the frost on his toes and ears. Focused on the contract.

In a clearing, the large grey rock troll worked on a humongous black pot. The insistent smell of boiling human flesh. The rock troll, large as a huge stony mass, stirred his food.

Geralt attacked it with resolution, before it could even move. Gazing it through. The troll, busy with lunch, stared surprised at the witcher, before its head separated - falling like a loose stone to the ground - and the mass kneeled over. 

Geralt too late realized the second troll storming at him, unexpectedly stealthy for the grotesque being. Its gigantic fist met with Geralt’s temple, and the troll gripped his hair, swinging him into the snow. His altered form had slowed him.

The witcher struggled after the silver sword - now unreachable past a drift. Desperate to protect the baby inside him, Geralt kicked his legs before his face was pushed suffocatingly into the frozen snow.

Suddenly the grip in his hair disappeared, and he struggled to turn around to breathe. As he did so, he saw Ciri’s lithe form decapitate the monster in a pirouette. Cutting with the new silver sword, the one he had bought for her birthday, hidden in the trunk of the Toyota.

The blow was fluent as the sword extended her arm. The blade sharp, flashing in the sunlight; a swallow engraved on its shoulder. The second monster kneeling over next to the first.

Ciri hunched down to where Geralt had rolled, still clutching his belly. Her hand, clad in a brown leather glove, stroked wet hair from his temple while she studied where the troll had hit the witcher's face.

Satisfied he wasn’t seriously injured, she slid the sword into the sheath on her back, freeing up both hands to pull him to his feet.

“You found your gift, happy birthday, princess.” 


	3. Reminisce

Ciri supported Geralt into the entrance, his arm rested on her shoulder, the other pressed on his abdomen. The witcher panted heavily and his cheeks were cold and pale. Leading him to the bathroom and deposited him on the toilet seat before she removed the jacket and thick sweater.

The witcher hadn’t taken potions to gain speed and strength. Heavily pregnant, he had endangered the baby and himself. Ciri pursed her lips and suppressed her anger when she saw the guilt in his eyes. There was a deep gash inches from Geralt’s temple. It would need to be cleaned. The blood from the gash slowly dripped on his t-shirt. She pulled off her gloves and placed them on the table.

“What happened?” Emhyr had stealthily joined them in the toilet connected to the butler’s quarters. Ciri glared backwards. This was as much Emhyr’s fault as it was Geralt’s fault.

Geralt was drenched, and his calloused thumb made subconscious circles above his bellybutton.

“Were you hit in the stomach?” Ciri demanded and extracted the first aid kit from under the sink.

“No,” he paused. “But I landed on it.”

Her hand brushed his clammy skin when she cleaned the scratch with an anti-septic wipe, pushing white wet hair with red stains behind the ear. After the blood was dried off it looked superficial, so it didn’t need stitches. Pulling out a gauze compress from the first aid box and pressed it on the wound.

“Hold this,” Ciri ordered; she kneeled in front of the witcher and lifted the wet t-shirt to reveal his stomach. The cotton stuck to his cold skin, and the white stretched skin was overlain with angry red scars. She placed a hand on top, hoping her sister in there was safe, desperate to sense movement.

She glared back at Emhyr, hovering in the doorway. Emhyr’s qualifications with the stethoscope were better than hers. But she didn’t want Emhyr getting the satisfaction, so she took the stethoscope from the first aid kit.

On unfamiliar territory, Ciri put the chest-piece on Geralt’s belly.

First, only picking up noise, before she finally heard the baby’s rapid heartbeat - quick paced compared to the witcher’s slow one. “I can hear the heartbeat, is she moving?” Ciri asked. A bulge on his belly confirmed that it was.

“Yes.” Ciri had expected a retort. 

“You should shower.” Geralt nodded, complaisantly, as she stood up and turned towards Emhyr still in the bathroom.

“And you,” voice full of disgust. “Find some dry clothes.” She thought her father would protest, but he span around - after measuring up the utterly miserable witcher sitting on the lit of the toilet; blood smeared on his face and hair, gauze still pressed to his temple.

As soon as Emhyr had left, Ciri wrapped her arms around Geralt. Letting him bury his face in her neck.

* * *

Emhyr knew he had no business knowing when Geralt had taken a different lover. It still left him with a strange knot in his guts that Geralt had allowed someone else to fuck him. It was illogical. His and Geralt’s relationship had always been transient.

He chose his favorite black t-shirt and jogging pants for the witcher.

Emhyr didn’t bother to knock. Geralt was naked, say for a towel around his waist. And he was alone.

He stood transfixed looking at the muscled scarred upper body. Toned abdomen muscles ending in a swollen belly. A red gaping scar - torn even further out of shape - crossed his side. A diagonal one tore across Geralt’s navel and was stretched apart, thin skin, ragged. 

Emhyr extended the t-shirt and pants to the witcher.

“You should have informed me you were pregnant,” Emhyr said. Geralt glared at him, naked. The damp muscles on his biceps were still covered in drops of water.

“I thought it was obvious,” Geralt snapped, putting the clothes on a chair.

“Ciri just threw her credit-card and a 5000 dollar handbag in the fireplace. Said she wanted nothing from and I quote ‘my conniving ass.’”

Emhyr gritted his teeth, blaming Geralt of the obvious decline in the already fragile relationship he enjoyed with his daughter.

“Are you blaming _me_ she hates you?” Geralt asked.

“She is still my daughter,” Emhyr huffed. It stung that Ciri was leaving, bringing nothing he had given her, but it stung even more that she wasn’t blaming Geralt.

It was Geralt who had suggested going on an unsolicited troll hunt in the middle of a snowstorm, pregnant.

Geralt stepped menacingly towards him. Nostrils flaring.

“You lost that right a long time ago.” Confirming that the witcher was poisoning Ciri’s opinion against him. Emhyr’s heart-rate paced up.

Geralt’s hair was wet and fell across his neck muscles in white lumps. Strong and tantalizing arms. A very visible bulge under the towel. As close as Geralt was, the salty whiff of arousal and anger was thick in the air. Blood rushed directly to his own groin, his erection suddenly pulsated into existence. 

Incessantly Geralt pushed against Emhyr, trapping him against a wall, crushing his lips with his own, and already a hand in Emhyr’s pants. The towel slipped off and Emhyr heaved for breath as Geralt’s calloused hand closed around him. Everything too hard for comfort, he winced.

The last person Emhyr had had sex with was Geralt - eight months previously. All other offers had faded in comparison.

The witcher pumped him hard, while pressing his own erection into the tender part of Emhyr’s thigh. Opening his mouth.

It proved too much, Emhyr pushed the witcher around, forcefully, a hand glided along Geralt’s back already searching for the opening, the other held tight on the back of the witcher’s neck. Forcing Geralt on the bed.

Suddenly remembering the pregnancy. In a short lucid moment, he flipped Geralt around on his back before pressing him into the mattress. Emhyr unbuckled his own pants and hoisted Geralt’s leg up by the knee-hook.

Pushing a finger inside while cupping Geralt’s balls. The witcher drew a sharp intake of breath as the finger was followed by another. Before aligning himself to enter, Emhyr barely had to prepare himself, impertinent of the fast preparation of the other.

The swollen belly in front of him, ever present, made Emhyr thrust deeper in jealousy.

Geralt tilted his head backwards, groaning, as Emhyr slid his entire length inside, warmth and pressure tickled in his belly. A perfect pressure on his tender tip. His girth opened the body in front of him, and Geralt’s slick, thick dick leaked already. Emhyr pushed hard in; he groaned as he dug his fingers into Geralt’s hip for leverage.

Geralt’s hand closed around his own dick; pumping, before liquid splashed across his hand and stomach. Head tilted backwards and lips slightly parted.

Leaning back to avoid staining his dress shirt, Emhyr pushed in before finishing himself in a few brief grunts. Release, as the tight muscles responded by clenching around him.

Struggling to keep composed, he felt eight months of tension emptying deep inside Geralt. Too soon plopping his dick out, still half hard and angry red. His muscles spasmed as he stood up from the bed.

Geralt propped himself up on the elbow as Emhyr pulled up his dress pants and zipped them. Refusing to acknowledge the witcher. The witcher’s wet hair in a mess framed the square face.

“That was fast, long time?” Geralt grinned, reaching for the towel. 

Emhyr just bared his teeth and fled like a coward.


	4. Est Est

Wearing Emhyr’s clothes — smelling like Emhyr — undermined Geralt’s self-control. They needed to get away from the mountain as fast as possible. Unfortunately, the storm had intensified; and despite hours of daylight left, the forest was pitch black.

He had concealed the pregnancy from Emhyr; worrying what the revelation would provoke. Geralt walked barefooted into the living-room where Ciri sat in a corner cleaning her sword; meticulously sharpening and oiling the blade. She tipped her face upwards, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

Emhyr wasn’t there.

“The weather will clear up tomorrow, we’ll leave then.” Ciri’s lips curled up in an affectionate smile. Finishing the blade and slid it back in the sheath.

“I can’t offer you anything Emhyr can, you know that,” Geralt said. She nodded, “I know.”

“I live in the trailer Vesemir left me.” His financial problems would prove difficult with a baby. Taking on contracts was impossible for the next two months.

“I don’t care,” she placed a slender hand on top of his, caressing it with a thumb.

“Dad.” Her huge green eyes smiled at him.

“Calling me that pisses Emhyr off.” 

She smiled. “That is part of the fun.”

“Ciri,” he warned. “We need to stay on his good side until we leave; it is his house.”

“Is that why you let him fuck you?” Ciri asked. Geralt almost choked on his own tongue.

“I... What? How did you?” He coughed.

“Witcher smell, remember,” Ciri said nonchalantly.

She placed the hand on his belly, spreading her fingers on the thin black t-shirt. The baby kicked outwards towards her hand.

“Besides, I know how babies are made.” 

The soft fingers trailed the bulge of the baby’s foot.

“My little sister,” she said proudly, greeting the kick with a thumb. The storm was picking up again, and the flames in the central fireplace picked up as the wind blew directly into the chimney.

* * *

Geralt had to admit — edged on by his meager income, sometimes far between — that Emhyr’s pantry was remarkably well-stocked. The witcher selected a smoked ham and fresh potatoes for the dinner.

When Emhyr emerged his black hair was combed meticulously back; he wore a black suit like he was going out. He had showered too.

Geralt had poured water for both himself and Ciri, Emhyr opened a bottle of red for himself. Expensive red — Est Est; Geralt drank a sip of his water, envious of the wine.

Emhyr didn’t talk or comment on the food, silent on Geralt’s using the pantry unauthorized and silent on Geralt’s cooking.

Geralt preferred the taciturn.

“So, Emhyr,” the witcher finally said. “Will you be leaving when we have left, or are you staying the whole 14 days?” Emhyr clenched his fists, still silent.

* * *

Geralt awoke around 2 AM. It was dark, but his pupils expanded, and with his near perfect night vision, he avoided turning on the lights. Orienting himself.

It was hunger that had woken him. His witcher metabolism and the starving, growing baby in his belly craved food. His back muscles cramped, and the gash next to his temple throbbed. A violent movement inside him kicked into his ribs.

“I guess you’re hungry too.” Making an appeasing circle on the spot.

His stomach growled again, certain he had seen something that could be made into a suitable sandwich in the kitchen. It would satisfy him to empty Emhyr’s pantry before leaving, so he pulled on a t-shirt and rolled out of bed.

The witcher tiptoed upstairs. No sounds. Both Ciri and Emhyr was likely deep asleep, and he was soundless. The wind had calmed, and the house was silent as he located the bread and cheese. Placing a slice of tomato for good measure, and a slice of ham from dinner.

The sound of a bottle tipping in the distance caught the witcher’s attention, making his sensitive ears alert.

The baby’s head lay lower tonight, lodged in his pelvis. Geralt gave up on eating the rest of his sandwich. His stomach was filled painfully by the baby’s struggling and it gave him heartburn.

“You are not getting more midnight snacks,” the witcher threatened and placed a hand on top. She kicked defiantly into his stomach again. To ease the pressure on the front, Geralt leaned back.

The muffled sounds finally piqued Geralt’s curiosity. He waddled on bare feet along the hallway extending into the west-wing. It wasn’t coming from Ciri’s room, her room was to the east. She had packed her things the day before, being deliberately noisy for Emhyr’s benefit. He worried for a second that it was a ghoul, but that was disproved when his wolf medallion wasn’t twisting. The crying came from the master-bedroom en-suite.

Geralt slid the door open to the master bedroom. Only the pale moonlight reflected from the snow illuminated the room.

Emhyr hadn’t noticed the witcher. He slumped back in a dark gray lounge-chair. The expensive bottle of red, or rather an empty twin, rolled around on the carpet. A third just opened in Emhyr’s hand. 

The pained, muffled sounds emanated from him.

Geralt’s reflexes still good enough to catch the green bottle by the neck before it spilled over the floor.

Emhyr smelled of red-wine. It was the sour stench of an equal amount of sour wine and self-loathing. Emhyr stared blankly back at him, dizzy, inebriated. His eyes didn’t adjust to the dark as Geralt’s.

“Leave me,” Emhyr hissed, pulling long fingers through his hair.

Geralt placed the bottle on a nearby mahogany table. While Emhyr dry-heaved with his head between his legs, struggling not to vomit. It shouldn’t be any of Geralt’s business. If Emhyr wanted to drink himself to death, that was his right. Geralt’s bones chilled as the other man began sobbing.

All the Geralt’s hardness melted away, and he opened his arms and pulled Emhyr into an embrace — the sour breath on his neck.

He didn’t mind that Emhyr sank into him like a rag doll. Wobbly, staggering, when Geralt slid his arm around Emhyr’s waist and pulled him towards the bed.

Geralt let a hand through the soft black hair. 

“Please stay,” Emhyr rasped. The witcher groaned as he rested his tender back on the mattress next to Emhyr, listening to the other’s mutterings.

* * *

Emhyr’s lips were fused together. His head pounded, and his inside rolled around, bubbling, pressing in his throat.

The details of last night were foggy; they mostly composed of him drinking heavily. Alone.

If he moved, he was certain he would be sick. Groaning. His inside protested. That was then Emhyr realized that he wasn’t alone in the bed.

The sharp daylight finally penetrated the dense clouds. It cut into his brain as he struggled to look at Geralt. A muscle memory from the night before told him he had fallen asleep with the witcher’s arms rolled around him.

Geralt snored on his back with his mouth ajar, the witcher had shaved and the creases on his face had relaxed into a youthful softness. A hand in Emhyr’s hair, the other on top of his belly. His t-shirt had wrinkled to reveal a strip of naked pale skin, and a distended bellybutton. Extending his hand to touch, however, Emhyr’s self-control prevailed, and he lowered the hand to the mattress.

He had told Geralt about how he feared the loneliness when Ciri left. How he regretted the way he had forced Ciri apart from Geralt. Emhyr clenched his eyes in shame of his candor.

Emhyr didn’t have long to contemplate before he struggled up. Geralt’s hand detangled from his hair.

Emhyr ran to the bathroom, a fraction of a second before half digested red-wine and little else was vomited out of his mouth. His upper body contracted while sweat formed on his suffering forehead, drums pounded in his ears, and another violent cramp forced even more wine out of his mouth.

It had woken Geralt, who squatted next to him, making smoothing circles between his shoulder blades. His warm, calloused hand resting on his neck.

“Finished?” He asked, Emhyr wanted to ask Geralt to leave, but the warm calm presence was too persuading an addiction. Emhyr staggered back to bed, before Geralt deposited two aspirins and a glass of water on the bedside table.

“Gonna make breakfast,” Geralt said, before he turned around and slowly and deliberately closed his hand around the open bottle of Est Est on the table. Before sliding the door closed, the witcher cast a long dissatisfied glance at Emhyr.

The thought of the bacon-piece porridge made the nausea overwhelm him again. 


	5. Northern Deck

“Emhyr is indisposed,” Geralt said, and poured an open bottle of red into the drain. Ciri raised her eyebrows. “He finished at least two bottles.” 

“Ciri, does he often drink that much?” Geralt inquired.

While Emhyr would take a glass of red wine to his dinner — and sometimes a whiskey, especially with visiting board-members — Ciri had never seen Emhyr drunk. She shook her head.

“No, he is usually very restrained.”

“Good.” Geralt poured oatmeal into the pot. While Emhyr wasn’t a terrible parent, his blatant disregard for her wishes was unforgivable. Under different circumstances, Ciri might even have liked him.

“That bag mightn’t have been suitable as firewood,” Geralt stared into the fashionable embers. The leather-pipings and top fabric smouldered in the hearth.

Geralt turned on the coffee machine.

“I’ll never afford one of those.”

Ciri didn’t want a 5000 dollar handbag. She wanted a family.

“Planning of getting a rich boyfriend?” Geralt asked.

“I _have_ a girlfriend, and she is ain’t buying me one either. Besides, it was worth 5000 dollars to see Emhyr’s face when it burned,” Ciri smiled. Geralt suppressed a snicker.

“What about college?” Geralt ladled porridge in a bowl and pulled two hard-boiled eggs from the water, sliding across the counter for Ciri.

“What _about_ college?” Ciri pouted her lips and crossed her arms.

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He strained his muscles to pour orange-juice into her glass. The witcher winced in pain and leaned against the counter.

“I want nothing from him.”

“Not my business.” Geralt stared down into his bowl, sliding a hand across his belly. Geralt and Emhyr’s relationship was touchy for both, and so far an enigma.

“I just want to leave,” Ciri was suddenly melancholic. In eight months she had avoided getting to know Emhyr, and now it was too late. Neither hers nor Emhyr’s stubbornness would allow them to re-conciliate.

“All right, hopefully the battery of the Toyota hasn’t died. If the storm has cooled down, we can drive tomorrow morning.” Ciri nodded.

She and Geralt had occasionally stayed in Vesemir’s trailer; it was worn down.

“Did you fix the roof on the trailer?” Ciri asked, stirring in the bowl.  


“Yeah…” 

Maybe she should have sold the bag. Uncertain whether Geralt would have money to buy baby stuff. Ciri already planned to get contracts herself. She had completed her witcher training before Emhyr had regained custody. 

“Do you think Emhyr’ll take the baby away too?”

Geralt didn’t answer. He couldn’t afford a non-leaking trailer, so he stood a poor chance against Emhyr’s lawyers.

* * *

Emhyr didn’t appear for lunch either, though likely still hungover. Equally likely was that he avoided them. He had — in his wine-induced haze — jabbered things to Geralt, which he normally wouldn’t.

Sobbed that he never said goodbye to Parvetta, that he hadn’t loved her and that he hated himself for it. Geralt hadn’t understood, but he had listened, while Emhyr had sunk into his arms. Like a beanbag.

“Do you feel guilty that we fucked while she was pregnant?” Emhyr had asked.

It was so many years ago. Emhyr, back then an E.R. resident doctor, penniless, working long hours, with a fake name. Parvetta was dead now, fifteen years ago, and old-lady Calanthe, her mother, had given Ciri to Geralt.

The company of Emhyr’s father was lost — Geralt later learned. Unscrupulous associates had stolen it from Emhyr’s father. Geralt didn’t know the associates’s fate, but they weren’t with the company anymore.

The witcher’s vagrant lifestyle meant Emhyr never caught up with them until Ciri was seventeen.

After lunch, Geralt went to his car to get his cards. The storm was picking up again and large snowdrifts encapsulated the driver's side of the car; the load was filled with white puffy snow.

Geralt stamped snow off his boots and straightened his back to help on his cramping muscles. Gasping, his back began aching as if straightening.

Putting the Gwent decks on the table, the back pains lessened, and for a few minutes Geralt thought the ache was caused by the cold. Ciri’s mouth curled up in a smile and selected the Northen deck.

“Is something wrong?” Ciri asked, measuring him, his back stabbed with pain again.

“You took my deck,” Geralt said instead, feigning annoyance. A sharp pain lightened down his pelvis muscles.

Reaching for his spare deck, sighing. Observing Ciri flicking through his cards. She always got his deck when they played, a reason he had a spare.

When Emhyr turned up, Ciri was chopping vegetables for the stew. Her pony-tailed hair swung from side to side, flaxen like her mother’s and the scar was jagged and man-made.

Emhyr grunted, bags under his eyes. He had showered and done his hair, a fresh dark grey dress shirt and new slacks.

“Wine?” Geralt asked. Emhyr’s self-control crumbled. Making a grimace before he forced his face into a non-nauseated grin.

“No, thank you,” Emhyr said, looking like he wondered if he could forego dinner too.

Geralt’s back-muscles contracted again, forcing him to shift position on the chair, desperate for bed.

* * *

Emhyr looked forward to Ciri and Geralt to leave. He wanted them there, but drawing it out was forcing him to confront unsought emotions.

The wind outside howled. He was still not completely himself and he wanted something to drink, but his pride didn’t allow himself to drink anymore for now. Huffing, he leaned back with his book instead. All the time he had known Geralt, the witcher hadn’t had a steady partner, only Yennefer came close. He hoped that Geralt wouldn’t be alone with the baby, but at least Ciri would be there. Emhyr fell asleep, inhaling the pillow where Geralt had slept. 

Emhyr was confused when he woke up, having been deep asleep. It was still dark outside, and the snow-storm unrelenting whipped his windows.

He sat up, smoothing his hair back, eyes closing in on Ciri.

“Father, please come,” — she hadn’t called him father for months. She looked scared. “I think something is wrong with Geralt.”


	6. Daddy

Emhyr propelled out of bed. His heart galloped as he struggled with his slippers and bathrobe.

Cirilla raced through the mansion to the downstairs, with Emhyr following close. Options flickered through his head. Damage to the placenta—from Geralt’s bout with the trolls—wouldn’t result in an emergency two days later.

A bedside lamp cast a dim glow on the butler’s room, revealing Geralt nested inside a pile of bed-linen.

The witcher curled into a fetal ball, panting, before he restlessly shuffled to his back. Geralt turned his ash-gray face towards the intruders while rubbing his hands on his hips.

“He needs to go to a hospital,” Emhyr said. “When the storm clears, they’ll send a helicopter.” Emhyr flipped around and stepped towards the door again.

“I don’t have insurance,” Geralt protested, groaning, pressing his hands to the top of his abdomen. The storm howled again with renewed intensity.

“Aren’t you supposed to be a trained doctor?” Cirilla hissed, blocking Emhyr’s escape.

“I _was_ , fifteen years ago.”

Geralt twisted on the bed again. Both turned towards the witcher and Emhyr pressed his lips into a line and resigned.

“Alright, Cirilla, wait outside.”

He hoped it was kidney stones.

Waiting for Ciri to close the door, Emhyr sank down next to Geralt and pushed the witcher’s t-shirt up. The pale skin was uneven where scars thinned it, but was dry under his fingers. He helped Geralt roll to the side and began searching along the back for the kidneys.

An appreciative sound escaped Geralt’s lips, as Emhyr digged his fingertips into the witcher’s back. Kidney stone patients would have winced, or, in Geralt’s case, punched him.

“Roll to you back again, please,” Emhyr asked, biting his teeth together. He had hoped to avoid the pregnancy, but slid a hand along the curve of Geralt’s belly to where it met flat chest muscles. The skin turned taunt as a drum, and Geralt panted in agony as the wave rolled over him.

It was definitely contractions.

Based on the top of the uterus, Geralt had passed the twenty-sixth week. So, it wasn’t a miscarriage.

“How far are you?” Emhyr asked, struggling to recall what the red-headed obstetrician from med-school had explained about premature deliveries.

“Thirty-seven plus four.”

Emhyr lifted his hand as if burnt.

* * *

Emhyr leaned his gloved palm on Geralt’s thigh, measuring the dilation with the other hand.

“So what’s the verdict?” Geralt hissed.

“You are in labour,” Emhyr finally said; possible it was “early”, but he hadn’t experience with the timing.

“How long time has your contractions lasted?” Geralt’s eyes flickered to the digital alarm clock, which read in large red digital letters: 6:30.

“Twelve hours, give or take, didn’t get bad until eleven.”

The labour didn’t progress fast, so the birth was hours away. There was time to call for a helicopter and the storm to cool.

Geralt pulled his t-shirt down again.

“I’ll call for a medical evacuation.”

Emhyr stood up, tore off the blue gloves with a snap and discarded them in the bin.

“Don’t worry, Geralt, you’ll be in the hospital before the baby arrives.”

The witcher grunted.

* * *

Geralt shoved his head back in frustration, humiliated by relying on Emhyr’s aid. His back threatened to loosen itself from the rest of his torso, and the pain overwhelmed his breathing.

When Emhyr exited, Ciri rushed into the room, throwing herself at him.

“Is the baby coming?” She asked.

“Hmm.”

Between contractions, Geralt willed himself to sit.

“It might take a while, Emhyr didn’t seem concerned.” He propped himself up on the pillows behind him. “Thought I’d make it to the hospital.”

Ciri huffed.

“Emhyr ain’t concerned about anything unless it’s money or power.” The baby got a punch in, aimed at his bladder.

“I don’t think that’s true,” he whispered. The witcher had seen the anguish in Emhyr’s black eyes when he’d said thirty-seven and realized the baby was his. Emhyr mightn’t love Parvetta or Geralt, but he cared about his children.

It was the way Emhyr had clenched his teeth in last night’s drunken haze and told Geralt that he hadn’t loved Parvetta.

If his late wife and her wishes had meant so little to him, Emhyr wouldn’t have scruples fighting Geralt for custody of the baby.

His back cramped again, and blood poured out on the sheets in a dark pool. Struggling to keep his legs still, Geralt rolled to the side. The pressure against his ribs pushed intolerable despite the baby firmly wedged in his pelvis.

* * *

Ciri found Emhyr sitting at the kitchen counter, frozen in a death-stare-content with a frying pan. His black hair stuck out in a mess to all sides, but he had exchanged his pajamas with a shirt and dark trousers. 

“Did you call a helicopter?” Ciri asked, worried that when she left Geralt, he had been moaning, and massaging his belly, legs cramping.

Emhyr looked up, surprised that she spoke to him.

“They didn’t think landing in the storm was possible,” he said, accepting that Ciri gripped the pan, added butter and bacon and turned on the gas stove. She began cracking eggs into a casserole.

Ciri nodded in reaction to the helicopter’s delay. 

“Are you going for custody?” The question caught Emhyr off guard before he composed himself and straightened up.

“I have not decided, Cirilla,” Emhyr said, but the glimmer in his eyes radiated decision. She suppressed the urge to roll her eyes. 

Ciri poured orange juice to herself.

“If you leave them be, I’ll stay, I’ll even come and work at your bloody company.” She paused, it would destroy Geralt, if Emhyr took the baby. “And I’ll even be grateful.”

Emhyr wanted her to be the next director after him. Creating the family dynasty, which Emhyr’s father never managed. Ciri worried about Geralt and her little sister safe, and a company position also meant she could wire money to them.

With Geralt’s pride he mightn’t accept, but he wouldn’t refuse monetary help for his baby girl. Emhyr frowned, sipping his coffee.

“You really care about him that much,” Emhyr said, his mouth flinched.

Ciri poured a jug of orange juice, scooped the eggs onto a plate, and added five crisp bacon pieces, and a breakfast roll.

“And you really hate me that much,” Emhyr whispered. 

Ciri didn’t justify that with an answer. She took another breakfast roll in her mouth, shuffled everything on Geralt’s tray, and marched towards the stairs.

“I’ll let you think about it,” Ciri said, leaving Emhyr to boil in his own self hatred.


	7. Waiting

Emhyr paced towards the man-sized gable windows in the open kitchen livingroom. Bath foam mists of snow blocked the view of the forest, and he tapped his nails against the glass and found it impossible to imagine what he normally did to occupy his time.

The storm picked up, and the snow encapsulated the entire house in a whirlwind of white. Emhyr had again called his own pilot and the emergency services, but neither were flying in the storm. The emergency service operator even implied audaciously that Geralt wasn’t in specific danger. Furious, Emhyr finally conceded when his private pilot had explained the dangers.

He needed a drink, and his eyes flickered to the bar. But he couldn’t—desperate for Cirilla’s return, and afraid of the implications.

“Cirilla?” The girl’s shadowy movements startled him. Emhyr’s heart paced up, but she ignored him while preparing lunch.

“Just picking up lunch,” Cirilla said.

It was one o’clock, but Emhyr wasn’t hungry. Anxious nausea boiled in his throat. He stamped his restless leg into the floor hard, then settled in the armchair to hide it.

Emhyr opened his mouth to ask if Geralt needed help, but since Cirilla didn’t ask, he didn’t ask. Cirilla’s lips tightened, while she poured a glass of juice and crushed ice from the fridge.

“Do you need anything?” Emhyr asked.

“Not from you.” It was technically his juice.

Cirilla left as silently as she had appeared.

Automatically, Emhyr lifted himself from the seat several times, but then sank down again; he shouldn’t get drunk, and his help downstairs was unwelcome. If the helicopter couldn’t land soon, Geralt would have the baby here.

In the late afternoon, Cirilla appeared again—flaxen hair in a mess—and purposefully opened each kitchen cabinet. Empty-handed, she was halfway out of the kitchen when gaining eye contact with Emhyr.

“What is the status?”

“Uncertain.” 

Emhyr hesitated.

“Should I come?” he asked, and to his surprise, she nodded.

* * *

Geralt was on his back, panting, and didn’t acknowledge Emhyr’s entering. A contraction began, and Geralt’s knuckles went white when his fingers dug themselves into the madres. The witcher tipped his head backwards and pushed with everything he got. A low guttural sound emanated from his throat. The contraction ebbed out, and the sound turned into panting.

“How long time has he pushed?” Emhyr asked, mechanically. If Geralt was pushing, it might be over soon. Emhyr rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands.

“An hour,” Ciri said. The witcher looked exhausted and panted through the next break before pushing again. A pool of blood had wetted the sheet.

“Is the helicopter coming?” Geralt pleaded, all his muscles contracted.

“The storm hasn’t cleared,” Emhyr said.

Geralt didn’t protest when his legs were forced apart, and Emhyr measured the dilation. It was far less progress than he had hoped. Pushing again, Geralt clenched his jaw. Sweat added to the drenched locks of hair. Emhyr took the stethoscope and searched for the baby’s heartbeat, and was relieved when the whooshing became a quick paced beat.

Removing the examination gloves, he looked at Geralt; the witcher clenched his jaw and flipped his head backwards.

“Geralt, stop pushing.”

Geralt glared at Emhyr with angry yellow cat eyes.

“Why?” It was Ciri, her voice raised in alarm.

Emhyr turned around. “He is only seven centimeters, it’ll be a long night if he uses all his energy now.”

“Isn’t it going too slow?” Ciri’s asked, voice broken and raw. Geralt commented with a pained cry.

“I’m not an ob-gyn, I don’t know,” Emhyr admitted.

Geralt struggled to sit, and both Emhyr and Ciri turned to question him.

“Bathroom.” The witcher clutched behind his back, clenching his jaw in an attempt to overcome the pain.

“Again?” Ciri asked in exasperation.

Geralt stopped his stumbling in front of her, using a superhuman amount of self-control. His legs shook, and he pushed a hand into her hair and placed a kiss on her forehead.

“Everything is going to be okay,” he whispered while he cupped her check, and whipped a stray tear from under her eye with a calloused thumb. Geralt’s legs quivered dangerously, fighting the onset of the next tsunami of agony.

“Ciri, this...” the witcher groaned “... will take time. Take a break, please.”

“But, dad...”

Geralt tried to breathe through the contraction.

“Go. Emhyr’ll stay.”

Uncomfortable in being volunteered, Emhyr was about to protest, but Geralt looked like he wasn’t kidding; a low, pained sound escaped his clenched teeth.

Cirilla cast a glance towards Emhyr and then back to Geralt.

“Thanks. If something happens...” Cirilla trailed off. Emhyr fought against his desire to get the witcher to lie safely down, but Geralt was faster; he persevered—a hand under his belly—until Cirilla closed the door, before tumbling down breathing in sharply. Pushing again. 

The contraction passed, white wisps of wet matted hair hid the witcher’s eyes as he struggled up, a hand on the bed and the other under his belly.

Emhyr hadn’t moved when Geralt made a painful waddle to the bathroom.

* * *

Ciri needed a break; she had been sitting next to Geralt, holding a damp cloth on his forehead. His back was exploding in pain, cramp tore down his spine, and his belly curled up in a tense ball.

“Thank you.”

Emhyr didn’t reply; he sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed, eyes flickering around, searching for an escape.

“I have a bathtub,” Emhyr said.

“Congratulations.”

“I meant for you. It might be a distraction,” Geralt didn’t feel like leaving the bed, uncomfortable, he conceded, feeling heavy. Blood was seeping down his legs as he allowed Emhyr to take his arm.

The next contraction washed over the witcher and his knees boggled, Emhyr let him lean into him. Geralt was embarrassed of the sharp breath escaping his lips as he struggled up the stairs, leaning into the solid hand on his back.

Another debilitating contraction flushed over him, as Emhyr lowered him to sit on the toilet lit. Emhyr turned on the water in the huge build-in bathtub. Testing the temperature before kneeling in-front of Geralt, ignoring the blood.

“Get out, I need to shit.” Geralt tried to be polite about it. Shitting in front of Emhyr would be way too humiliating. Emhyr didn’t move.

“If you think I am leaving you, think again.”

“Didn’t know watching was your thing,” Geralt joked, gritted teeth, while trying to hold back. The painful build in his lower stomach was too much. He messaged just below his protruding bellybutton.

While considering begging Emhyr to get out before he soiled himself, something ruptured between his legs and clear liquid ran down the toilet lit and unto the floor.

Frozen, Emhyr stared at the display. His confident visage had turned gauntly pale.

“Just leave,” Geralt whimpered, trying to hold back.

“I am checking you,” Emhyr said and eased Geralt into his arm, helping him to the bathroom floor. The witcher had no strength left to fight him.

Geralt hoped he was going to shit on Emhyr, as an uncomfortable finger poked inside him. Another contraction followed, and he pushed. He didn’t shit on Emhyr.

“I think we are skipping the bath,” Emhyr decided quickly.

Emhyr rolled up a towel to place under Geralt’s head and placed a kiss on Geralt’s forehead. If it was not for the damp spot, Geralt was sure—in his pained frenzy—he was hallucinating.

He pushed again, gasping for breath.

“I can smell your fear,” Geralt said. It was bitter and nauseating.

Emhyr paused.


	8. Stargazer

The energy Geralt placed in each push was weakening, and he panted fast through the contractions. White locks of hair clustered to his damp forehead, and all blood was drained from his cheeks.

Almost certainly the baby’s face presented upwards, leaving the progress made during each push minuscule. Emhyr desperately realized the helicopter wouldn’t land in time.

Geralt and the baby were going to die, and Emhyr hadn’t power to stop it.

Emhyr placed a hand on top of Geralt’s clammy one. The muscles contracted. Feeling distraught, Emhyr tried pulling the witcher up by the armpits. But Geralt was heavy and uncooperative. Realizing he needed help, Emhyr breathed out hard before resigning.

“Cirilla,” he yelled.

In horror he looked at Geralt, who pushed again, in vain. Ciri flew into the room, kneeling at Geralt’s side, calm and focused.

“We need to get him to a different position, the baby is stuck.” She nodded.

Geralt’s muscled form was heavy to hold, and he slummed like a bag of potatoes when Cirilla pushed him to a seated position using her chest as support.

Geralt’s head dangled to one side as a contraction spasmodically rippled through his body. Cirilla’s eyes locked with Emhyr’s.

“Almost over, Geralt, almost over,” he whispered more to himself than Geralt, stroking white hair away.

The baby’s head appeared at the next contraction, the face looking upwards. Emhyr supported her neck before the infant slipped out at the next contraction. In a final exhaustion, Geralt slumped back into Ciri.

For an eternity, Emhyr held the little girl in his hands. Despite her being blotchy purple and covered in liquids, he had seen no one more amazing. So strong and beautiful, filled with potential. Before he—a second later—snapped out of it and realized that she needed warmth and cover.

Emhyr’s fingers shook as he quickly untied the umbilical cord from around the little girl’s neck and nestled the slippery infant on Geralt’s chest.

It surprised Emhyr that Geralt found energy to lift his hand to support her, but the witcher was getting renewed fuel by the ordeal finished.

The tiny girl, covered in liquid, had one of Geralt’s hands on her back, his fingertips just short of the black hair, mangled with vernix.

Emhyr left for a knife to cut the cord.

When he returned with the knife. Cirilla was rubbing the baby—still connected to Geralt—with a clean towel. The witcher was again alert. Color had returned to his cheeks.

The baby whimpered, and neither had noticed Emhyr in the doorway. Cirilla looked into Geralt’s smile, her mouth turned up in a grin before they both put a hand on the newborn’s back, embracing her, Cirilla caressed the tiny form with her fingers.

In a unity Emhyr wasn’t part of.

* * *

Ciri had left Geralt and the baby asleep in Emhyr’s bed. Emhyr was remarkably accommodating, moving to a guest bedroom.

Possibly because the en-suite bathroom was messy from the birth. Ciri couldn’t see other reasons Emhyr would give up his bed.

Emhyr slumped over the counter, a glass of whiskey in his hand, vernix and blood smeared on his crumbled dress shirt, with fingers buried in his hair.

“The helicopter can land in the morning,” he said. The storm had cleared, and Ciri had promised Emhyr to stay. Cirilla stared at him in disgust.

“There is room in the helicopter for a passenger,” Emhyr said, gulping down the whiskey.

“I am not forcing you to stay,” he continued. “I am not taking her away either.” If Ciri didn’t know better, she’d say he was crying.

Her hate disappeared like water on desert dirt. She pitied him. Getting up from the furthest place in the livingroom to where he sat, sliding into the bar chair next to him.

Ciri pulled her arms around him, and Emhyr began shaking violently, burying his face in her shoulder.

“I am so sorry,” he whispered, a hand stroking her hair.

* * *

Geralt awoke in pain. Certain the sticky substance between his legs was blood, it emitted a strong metallic stench.

The witcher struggled to untangle himself and find the baby; he stopped when he saw Emhyr cradling her. A hand caressed the infant’s black hair.

Suddenly Geralt felt she belonged more with Emhyr, in an expensive mansion, than in a dilapidated trailer with a leaky roof.

“The helicopter’ll be here in a couple of hours.” The girl stopped fussing.

“Will you...” Emhyr paused, “Let me see her...?” He carefully nestled her on Geralt’s chest, but kept a hand on her crown. “I know how I behaved with Cirilla. I have no right...”

Geralt’s ire about the last eight months culminated.

“Damn right, you don’t,” he hissed, snatching his daughter back, berating himself about his tender emotions when Emhyr was bonding with the infant.

Emhyr walked to the window again.

“You know when I said that I didn’t love Parvetta,” Emhyr said, looking into the blueness of the snow-cowered forest.

“I didn’t love her, because I loved you. I still love you,” Emhyr then admitted, his mouth contracted in regret.

“I hated that you were Cirilla’s father all those years, and I was not.” 

Said the devil, Geralt thought, pulling the baby closer. Still furious, he fought through the urge to ask Emhyr to climb into the bed with them, and to ask him to ride with him to the hospital.

Emhyr sat down on the bed, “She needs real diapers,” Geralt finally said.

“This torn apart sheet is not working.” Before Emhyr pulled her into his arms again.

Geralt rolled to his side, waiting for Emhyr to fix the black sticky goo that was leaking in the makeshift diaper.

When Emhyr had left for the bathroom, his phone rang; he had signal again.

“Lambert?” He asked, confused. Usually Lambert didn’t call. Usually when Lambert called, something big needed to be killed. Lambert didn’t call him, because Geralt wasn’t taking on any contracts at the moment.


End file.
